


In Between Heartfelt Declarations of Love

by orphan_account



Category: due South
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:38:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I didn’t really anticipate delving into the details of my sexual history when I initiated this conversation; I simply wanted to stop hearing about how great it is to fuck my tight Mountie ass."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Between Heartfelt Declarations of Love

**Author's Note:**

> I am a big fan of dirty talk, as I have demonstrated time and again, and of versions of Fraser who are into it bigtime. But today I felt like writing a Fraser who was a bit more...prim.  
> Also, my understanding of past and present laws of consent in Canada may be entirely off-base. When it comes to this particular topic, I am entirely Wikipedia-dependent.

“God, I love you!” Ray’s exclamation is heartfelt and always welcome. I never want to take his love for granted, and the way he expresses it when he comes for me adds to my own pleasure. There are some other things he says, however, especially when we’re making love, which I find a bit more problematic. Just five minutes before his heartfelt declaration of love, for example.

“Love fucking your tight Mountie ass,” he’d told me breathlessly. While I appreciated the emotion behind the sentiment, the phrase itself rather threw me out of the moment. But only briefly. Until two minutes before his heartfelt declaration of love, for another example.

“God, Canada makes the best cocks!” This observation, while somewhat flattering, was also a bit jarring, although the fact that Ray felt the need to express appreciation for that particular aspect of Canadian phenotypes was prompted by his grasping my erection and pumping it with vigor and verve restored me to the moment. Briefly. Until ninety seconds before his heartfelt declaration of love, for a third example.

“Come for me, c’mon be my little Mountie slut!” The command was phrased in a manner that made it difficult to obey. In fact, it delayed obedience to said command by about twenty seconds. But my body was already set to obey and overrode my mind, as it so often does with Ray. The only articulate words he came out with after that comprised the aforementioned heartfelt declaration of love, which, although I was spent by then, did cause my stomach to tighten just a bit. It was an emotional reaction as well as a physical one, and as close as my body could get to sexual arousal so soon after completion.

Ray is now panting against my back, finally at a loss for words. I carefully bend my elbows to lower us to the bed, and Ray rolls off to the side. He looks at me, as he always does, checking to make sure I’ve survived the encounter. It’s such a tender, romantic, _caring _gesture that my heart melts a little each time.__

But not enough this time, apparently, because Ray sees something on my face that worries him. “What is it, Fraser?” he asks gently. “Too rough?”

“Not at all,” I assure him. “It could be rougher still, if you were inclined.” He grins at that, because he likes it when I tell him what I like.

“So polite. And I think I will be inclined, but not until after the game,” Ray smiles at me fondly, then his face settles back into its previous expression of concern. “But I did something you didn’t like,” he says, not quite making it an interrogative.

“Well, there are some things that, perhaps, I’d rather you didn’t say,” I offer cautiously. Perhaps my criticism should be made into a metaphorical sandwich. Turnbull literally came with a manual; it was a human resources book he cheerfully handed to the Inspector on his first day in Chicago “with best wishes” from his former supervisor. The book suggested that, when offering constructive criticism, one should structure it as the filling in a sandwich, with compliments on either side serving as the bread.

“Mountie doesn’t like the four letter words,” Ray guesses, and I can’t keep myself from glaring at him. I’m fairly confident, though, that it’s a very weak glare, given how sated I feel at the moment.

“Some four letter words are fine. Others less so. Some of the words have more than four letters,” I tell him.

Ray isn’t stupid. “Oh, Mountie doesn’t like being called Mountie in bed,” Ray guesses.

“Generally speaking, Ray, and I know that it can be difficult to censor oneself in moments of extreme passion, I would rather you not refer to my nationality or my professional status when expressing enthusiasm for my physical and sexual attributes.”

Ray drapes his arm over his forehead. “I suck,” he says, presumably by way of apology.

“No, you do not,” I say firmly. “Well, in a literal sense you do, and quite well. But how were you to know I would prefer it if you avoided certain…words…at certain times unless I told you so directly?” It seems reasonable to me.

But Ray’s shaking his head. “Shoulda guessed,” he tells me. “Me, I’m more than fine with it if someone calls me their little cop slut, but I shoulda realized that wouldn’t fly with you.” 

I can’t help but wince. Who would ever call him their little cop slut? Oh! Of course she would have. And he would’ve liked it a lot, I’ll wager.

“Damnit!” Ray exclaims, again in self-castigation. “Slut’s another one, isn’t it?”

“Well…it does seem to denigrate people who enjoy sex for its own sake,” I say tentatively. “And why shouldn’t people enjoy sex for its own sake?” I ask, giving him a warm smile. “Especially if they’re having it with you.”

Ray still looks consternated. Perhaps my metaphorical sandwich needs symbolic toothpicks with colorful cellophane ruffles on their blunt ends?

“Did someone degenerate you for liking sex?” Oh, dear. Just because the afterglow sometimes diminishes my own perceptivity does not mean it does likewise for Ray.

“Well, when I was young, there was an older person,” I begin.

“Of course there was,” Ray says. “You were probably beating all age ranges off with sticks. And of course you’d pick someone older to…not beat off with a stick.” Ray’s puzzled by his own syntax for a moment, but I understand him perfectly.

“It was logical to choose someone who had experience,” I point out.

“Yeah, very logical,” Ray agrees, not without sarcasm.

“He said…things.”

“He? Your first time was with a man?”

“Yes. He said things, in the heat of the moment, that made me feel…rather demeaned,” I confess. I didn’t really anticipate delving into the details of my sexual history when I initiated this conversation; I simply wanted to stop hearing about how great it is to fuck my tight Mountie ass.

“Oh, man, what an asshole,” Ray says with feeling. He has that look he gets sometimes, the one that usually accompanies threats of head-kickings and beat-downs.

“Not really,” I hasten to assure him. I don’t want him thinking my life has been as bleak as all that. “He was actually very caring and affectionate and gentle. But he couldn’t stop himself from saying certain things while we had sex, and I was young enough that I didn’t really understand that, and so I felt confused and, as I said, a bit demeaned.”

“Wow,” Ray says. “So now even though you know people like me say shit like that and it’s not supposed to make you ashamed, you still hear it and go back to when you were…okay, you wouldn’t break the law, so you’d’ve been what? Eighteen?”

“Yes I was, and quite naïve with it. Although at the time we were breaking the law anyway. Had my partner been female, fourteen would have been legal.”

“Jesus, that’s….” Ray says before prudently interrupting himself. “Never mind. Let’s just concentrate on how I can make up for this. Aside from not doing it again, I mean.”

“Not doing it again would be more than sufficient, especially given the degree of difficulty in watching one’s speech during such primal acts,” I tell him carefully.

“Thanks for not pointing out that I suck at watching my speech in all acts,” Ray says with wry self-awareness. “If I say something like that again, though, just, I don’t know, poke me or something.”

“Poke you?” I fail to see how that would help.

Ray extends his forefinger, then jabs it lightly against his opposite forearm three times in rapid succession. “Like that. That’s Morse code for ‘O,’ right? So hopefully I’ll realize it’s short for ‘Okay, Ray, shut the hell up about me being in the RCMP and also don’t insult your boyfriend for his love of sex while you’re in the middle of celebrating said love of sex’ and adjust my language accordingly.”

I can’t help but laugh. Ray can pull off some elaborate soliloquies, quite off the cuff, for all his verbal tics.

“There you go,” Ray says, looking a lot less worried.

“Technically, Ray,” I tell him solemnly, “three short jabs would be Morse code for ‘S.’ As in, perhaps, ‘Stop referring to my boyfriend’s professional and national affiliations while we are enjoying an act of sexual congress, and also be mindful of his neuroses about certain other words’.” I laugh at myself, but Ray looks concerned again.

“Hey, don’t go calling yourself neurotic because certain words turn you off,” he tells me seriously. “I mean, sure you can bring the crazy at times, believe you me I am well aware of that, but calling yourself crazy for not liking it when I use words like that when we’re doing that? That sounds to me like you’re degenerating your own self.”

Ray moves in slowly for a kiss, giving me plenty of time to avoid it. I don’t. Perhaps I’m not the only one who knows how to make a sandwich here.


End file.
